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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885413">A Different Story</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves'>Wolvesandwerewolves</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>White Collar (TV 2009)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:26:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,760</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28885413</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeing James again is like a punch to the throat. </p><p>AU for Neal’s backstory/childhood hinted at; takes place somewhere in Season 3 where he never runs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Different Story</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>AU—Neal’s backstory is slightly different. Instead of going into WitSec with his mother and Ellen when he was three years old, he went with his father—on the run. James kidnapped and raised Neal while he hid from the police and the Irish mob. </p><p>Everything is mostly hinted at here. Honestly nothing much happens. But it’s something I’ve been wanting to write a story for for ages that I never have and I figured I might as well put out what I do have. Maybe eventually I’ll pick this up again but for now this is it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Seeing James again is like a punch to the gut. It knocks the wind out of him, leaves his stomach aching. Suddenly, he’s fourteen again, bruises circled around his wrist and an alias drilled into his head. </p><p></p><div>
  <p>The last time he saw his father, he’d been going by the name Danny. And Danny had left him, brought with him only a heavy, stretched out backpack, worn thin from use, and a jacket that was too tight around his shoulders, too short on his wrists and too thin in the cold, October air. He remembers hiding out in the fenced-in playground of the school he was attending, breath fogging in the chilly air, as he watched the front lights of a car pass by too slowly on the otherwise empty street. The rest of the car was swallowed whole by the creeping shadows of the night. He could not see the license plate, but he knew, instinctively, it was his father. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’d broken into the school with the keys lifted off the janitor during seventh period, called the police, and bolted. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Somehow, eventually, he ended up in New York. Somehow he survived, long enough to find Mozzie, who took him under his wing and called him a natural. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Of course Neal was a natural. He and his father had been running from the law and the mob both since he was only three years old. Crime was something burned into his bloodline and etched into his skin. It was easy—and fun, when running <em>towards </em>something <em>(freedom, art, the natural high of a heist)</em> and not from <em>from</em> something<em> (his father, and every alias in every small town they had ever lived in). </em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>Then again, he’d run from Peter, too, and that had been just as thrilling as lifting a canvas from a locked gallery’s wall late, late at night. Maybe it was just James that made running feel like a marathon, left him breathless and afraid. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’s not fourteen, anymore, though. He’s forty-three. He’s going by the name Neal. More accurately, he’s going by the name Nick. Nick Halden.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana’s grip on his hip tightens, her arm around his waist, the sharp point of her shoulder digging in between his ribs, and grounding him. She knows something is wrong. Neal squeezes back. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>James laughs when they make eye contact, says something of a small world, and Neal knows he is lying by the curve of his mouth, the way his eyes are sharp steel, cutting into him.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana’s comforting form pulls away from him, and suddenly he’s cold without her body heat. He shivers as James wraps his arms around him, and  the clap of his hand against his back stings. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>But he hugs his father back, shakes his head when he steps away and schools his face into a conman’s smile, foraged nostalgia behind his eyes. “It’s been a few years,” he says, and he feels like he’s listening to himself through a hidden mike, like his voice is static traveled through a wire, quiet and rough in the confined space of the van he knows Peter sits at, less than a block away. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>James grips his shoulder tight—a warning, and he he should listen to it—“Last I heard,” <em>and of course James is keeping tabs on him, of course tonight isn’t mere coincidence, “</em>you were in prison.” His smile is threatening, eyes too bright and teeth barring like a dog’s.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doesn’t listen to the quiet threat. Peter would say he never learns, and maybe he’d be right. Neal grins, cocky, and slides his arm back around Diana. She leans into him. “Last I heard, so were you.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>The look James shoots him is familiar and dark, a flash of lightning he can still see even when it’s gone. Neal’s chest starts to hurt, like he swallowed an entire brick that’s lodged itself inside his esophagus, pushes against the space meant for his lungs. Diana shifts, slides her fingers in between his, cool and slick with the sweat from her champagne glass, and suddenly Neal can breathe again, but it fights its way out of his throat like a silent scream. He feels sweat gather at the back of his neck, trailing down his spine and prickling like needles. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Maybe if he weren’t so good at pretending, he would flinch. Or freeze or maybe even try to run. Like he knows he used to, whenever he said the wrong thing, and put himself in danger. But he’s not a child anymore, and he’s lived his entire life by lying through his teeth, wearing each persona like a hat.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana squeezes his hand again. She lets go just long enough to swat at his chest playfully, laughing along with them like she’s in on the cruel joke. “Nick, would you care to introduce us?” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doesn’t want to. His past is cast in shadows, pushed to a different state in the back of his mind. But he doesn’t think he has a choice in this, in the same way he never had a choice in the backseat of his dad’s rusted Oldsmobile, memorizing a new name and story, making mental notes to not forget himself in the last town they’d fled from. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana’s weight against him is solid and he’s grateful, at least, that he didn’t go undercover alone this time. He squeezes her hand.</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>“Nick, </em>huh?” James says. He eyes Neal up and down. Like he’s looking for something. Neal feels himself shiver again, somewhere beneath the line of his skin, running like electricity along his tense muscles. He’s ready to run, even when he knows he can’t. “I’m going by Sam, these days.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Neal smiles. He leans into Diana, reminds himself that he’s not alone. “Simone, this is Sam. He’s something of an old friend.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>James’s biting laugh cuts into Diana’s voice just as she begins to tell him <em>hi. </em>It sounds like a slap on the wrist, sharp, leaves his ears ringing. “What, kid? You don’t call me <em>Dad</em> anymore?”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Neal feels almost dizzy. His face feels numb, but he laughs back, takes a quick sip of champagne to distract himself. The warmth of the alcohol flushes through him, mollifying and familiar. It burns on the back of his throat, cheap even for an event like this. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Somehow his father simply existing in the space next to him is nuclear enough to scorch and melt through his carefully made armor. Neal feels strangely vulnerable. He wants to turn, run back to the place he’s learned to call home, pack a bag and disappear into the cover of the night. Maybe he and Moz could settle down in Africa, make a new life where his past could never shadow after him again.</p>
</div><div>
  <p><em>No, </em>he thinks. He has family now, in Peter and El, June, Mozzie, Jones and Diana. They’re the reason he didn’t leave with the treasure when he had the chance, why he’s standing here with Diana tonight, keeping a close eye on the forgeries he made to draw out their thief.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He can’t leave. Doesn’t want to, really. He ran enough as a child and as a young adult, before he’d figured himself out, made his own family.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Whatever happens, whatever reason his father has for finding him here tonight—he’s going to have to endure it.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana shifts against him, squeezes his hand again. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>
    <em>Thank God for her.</em>
  </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He wonders what Peter thinks. What Diana thinks, or Jones. After tonight, he’ll have to tell them.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Survivor mode for him is a smile and a wink. It’s something he’s had to learn through heavy handed experience. But it works in his favor, and he smiles like nothing is wrong.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Dad,” he says, very carefully, the echo of his voice <em>so young </em>in his mind, frightened and bracing fiery rage. “Meet Simone, my fiancée and . . . <em>partner in crime.”</em></p>
</div><div>
  <p>James’s eyes crinkle with something Neal can’t place. He feels close to a panic attack, but he’ll stave off on that for as long as he can. Hopefully, in the consoling loneliness of his apartment, and not in the crowded, stuffy van. The only other times he’s been this close to falling apart in front of his friends was—after Kate, after Fowler. After Keller kidnapped Peter, when he went after Elizabeth, too. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He’d rather be face to face with that bastard, instead, tonight. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana saves him, cuts his father off with a laugh that rings lighter than James’s did, earlier. “Speaking of,” she says, and winks. “I hope you’ll excuse us, Sam. Busy night, you understand.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Sam smiles at her like she’s naive. “Oh, of course.” He glances around the crowd of people surrounding the bar, spread out across the entire building. “Hey, I’ll see you around, Nick. Take care of yourself, kid.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Sure thing, Sam.” </p>
</div><div>
  <p>James’s eyes narrow at him. Neal ignores the warning, lets Diana drag him away, back towards the open space of the hotel’s ball area, crowded with guests. He still feels as if his skin is crawling, and when he glances casually back, James is watching him. Neal forces himself to keep walking away.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana wraps one arm around him again, smiles, kisses his cheek affectionately. Her warm breath ghosts across his jaw, tickles at his neck. “Did we just get made?” she whispers, and pulls away with a professional grin. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>Neal smiles back. He still feels shaky. “Honor among thrives,” he whispers, and hopes it’s true. </p>
</div><div>
  <p>He doubts that it is.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“But,” he whispers, before pulling away, “keep an eye on him.”</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Diana nods. She leans back just enough to smile at him, but her eyes are calculating. He wonders if she can feel the sweat coating his palms, itching at the sleeves of his suit, where his hand rests on her waist. It’s not as embarrassing as he thinks it could be.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“Think he’s our thief?” she asks, and takes another sip of champagne.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>Neal shrugs, allows himself another glance over at his father—cozying up with a guest, now. Neal memorizes the face of him. He’ll have to go through the guest list later on tonight to find out who he’s with.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>“I think,” he says, very carefully, “that there’s a reason he’s here tonight.” If they’re lucky, he’s there for the art. He has a feeling he’s there for Neal. The way they left things—he takes another breath.</p>
</div><div>
  <p>He has a team, now. Backup. And they can’t help him if they don’t know what they’re dealing with. “And it’s James, by the way—James Bennet.”</p>
</div>
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